Duke   University  Libraries 

The  old  plantat 
Conf  Pam  #663 


i  THE 


OLD    PLANTATION: 


A     POEM. 


liiB^JJf  **TH  E    WAN  D  E  R  E  R. 


TURNWOLD,  GA. : 
COUNTRYMAN     PRINT. 

1862. 


\ 

s 


TO 

ALL   THOSE   WHO,   LIVING   ON 

THE    OLD   PLANTATION, 

LOVE    IT, 

AND   TO   THOSE    WHO, 

SAVING  FORSAKEN  IT,   STILL  CHERISH 

ITS  PLEASANT  MEMORIES, 

I    DEDICATE   THIS    VOLUME. 

THK     AIJTHOK. 


PREFACE 


A  verv  poor  thing  may  be  made  so  much  like  a  very  good  on«, 
ibat  the  counterfeit  will  unmistakably  point  out  the  genuine.  I 
could  not,  if  I  would,  conceal  the  fact  that  this  poem  is,  in  its  plan, 
modeled  after  Goldsmith^s  Deserted  Village.  And  even  the  phrase- 
ology of  my  production  may  softetimes  so  nearly  approximate  that 
of  the  sweet  singer  of  home  afifcctions,  that  I  shall  be  accused  of 
downright*theft,  not«nly  of  plan  and  sentiment,  but  even  ef  words. 
If  so— so  be  it.  I  confess  everything  of  this  sort,  in  advance,  and 
Without  plea,  t  lay  no  claim  to  originality  in  what  is  here  offered 
to  the  public 

The  feelings  and  sentiments  indulged  in  by  me,  have  so  often 
been  the  theme  of  the  poet,  that  it  would  be  very  difficult  for  even 
genius  to  invest  them  with  a  garb  whose  tissues  had  not  before 
been  used  to  weave  a  garment  for  impulses  to  be  found  in  every 
heart.  Not  only  have  I  read  Goldsmith,  but  I  have  read  Gray,  and 
others  whose  productions  belong  to  the  school  of  these.  And  here 
I  may  remark,  in  passing,  that  if  the  Deserted  Village  was  not 
actually  the  cre.ature  of  Gray's  Elegy,  it  is  plain  that  Goldsmith 
had  read  Gray.  And  it  does  not  require  the  keen  nose  of  a  cap- 
tious critic,  eager  upon  the  scent  of  a  plagiarism,  to  discover  iden- 
tity of  thought  an'l  expression  in  the  Deserted  Village,  and  the 
Elegy.  Goldsmith  doubtless  wrote  with  his  mind  fully  imbued 
with  Gray  :  and  I  have  written  after  having  read  and  admired  both. 

This  much  candor  compels  me  to  say.  But,  at  the  same  time,  I 
must  be  allowed  to  say,  also,  that  the  sentiments  met  with  in  the 
two  poems  mentioned,  are  not  peculiar  to  Goldsmith  and  Gray. 
They  are  to  be  found  in  every  human  bosom.  And  hence  it  is  that, 
these  two  authors  are  so  popular.  People  read  their  productions, 
find  their  own  hearts  reflected,  and  then  turn  to  them  again,  just 
as  they  do  to  a  mirror,  where  they  have  once  beheld  tbo  images  of 
their  own  faces. 

The  local  scenery,  manners,  and  customs  here  described,  I  claim 
to  be  true  to  nature :  and  I  have  only  i;qingled  with  my  description, 
sentimenti  common  to  us  all,  and  which  more  favored  writers  have 
used,  with  better  effect,  before  me.  But  even  a  poor  writer — un- 
less a  very  poor  o»e  indeed — cannot  divest  the  themes  of  which  I 
have  attempted  to  sing,  of  all  their  interest. 

The  idea  uf  home  has  peculiar  attractions  for  all.  And  a  home 
deserted,  and  in  ruins,  (vith  the  idea  of  a  wanderer  pining  for  old 
familiar  scenes,  possesses  a  melancholy,  but  pleasant  interest  to 
everyone.  Hence  a  puem,  founded  upon  this  basis,  either  dropped 
from  the  glowing  heart  of  genius,  or  fashioned  by  the  polished  hand 
•f  the  artist,  has  a  better  chance  for  success  than  most  others. 

Perhaps  it  might  have  been  better  for  me,  had  I  named  wj  pro- 
duction The  Old  Home,  or  The  Deserted  Homestead,  or  something 
of  the  sort,  and  made  the  mere  general  ideas  of  home,  as  they  ozist 
In  every  locality,  the  basis  of  this  poem — if  I  may  be  pardoned  for 
calling  it  so.  In  that  event  I  might  have  had  a  wider  audience  of 
interested  listeners,  and  possibly  of  admirers.  The  probability  that 
this  would  be  so,  appealed  to  my  judgment  with  great  strength. 
But  the  peculiar  type  of  home  enshrined  in  my  heart  is  that  which 
is  to  be  found  in  The  Old  Plantation.    I  love  my  section — and  my 


4  PBBPACB. 

country  little  less,  1  hope — though  I  must  confess  some  less,  if  by 
possibility  their  interests  be  in  collision.  But  I  do  not  believe  they 
are. 

The  local  manners,  customs,  and  affections  of  the  sunny  louth — 
(HeaTen's  choicest  blessings  upon  her,  for  here  I  hold  my  home, 
and  everything  dearest  to  me!) — have  never  been  as  often  made 
the  sulijects  of  poesy  and  song,  as  they  should  be.  And  when 
some  fund  son  of  hers  has  turned  his  attention  to  the  stamping  of 
her  impress  upon  the  world  of  letters,  it  has  been  too  often  the 
case — (I  say  it  with  deep  sorrow !)— that  she  has  not  seen  to  it  that 
he  should  not  pine  in  .neglect,  and  be  pressed  down  by  critics  and 
criticism  inimical  to  her  hearth-stoaes  and  her  homes.  And  yet, 
for  all  this,  I  love,  and  must  love  my  section.  And  for  this  reason 
I  have  endeavored  to  sing  of  the  southern  hopie,  instead  of  the 
homes  of  the  world.  Perhaps  it  might  have  been  better  for  me  to 
pursue  a  different  course.  Something  whispered  me  it  would.  A 
desire  for  success  (common  to  all  authors^and  a  love  for  the  south 
strove  with  each  other;  but  love  prevailed  :  and,  in  the  language 
of  him  whose  poetry  I  so  much  admire,  "1  must  be  indulged,  at 
present,  in  follovring  my  affections." 

When  I  had  concluded  to  sing  of  southern  homes,  and  to  call  my 
poem  The  Old  Plantation,  then,  probably,  it  would  have  been  to 
my  interest  to  exclude  the  vexed  question  of  American  politics — 
negro  slavery.  I  advocate  the  system  of  slavery  as  it  exists  among 
us.  The  umpires  of  literary  effort  in  this  country,  and  in  Europe, 
are  opposed  te  it.  The  south  has  no  organs  of  literature,  and  criti- 
cism, whose  dicta  will  either  damn  or  make  a  poem.  Hence  it 
might  have  been  best  for  me  to  avoid  the  question  of  slavery  alto- 
gether, since  my  views  upon  the  subject  may  serve  to  taint  my 
production  in  the  eyes  of  most  of  my  literary  censors. 

But  how  could  I  write  a  poem  depicting  southern  manners,  cus- 
toms, and  institutions,  and  leave  out  of  view  this  question  ?  The 
French  monarch  said,  Vetat^  c'est  moi!  I  say,  negro  slavery  is 
the  south,  and  the  south  is  negro  slavery.  The  Alps  are  no  more 
a  part  of  Switzerland  than  this  institution  is  a  part  of  the  south. 
And  vou  had  as  well  attempt  to  depict  Swiss  scenery  without  men- 
tioning the  Alps,  as  to  attempt  to  describe  the  south  without  refer- 
ring to  negro  slavery. 

But  I  hare  not  treated  this  question  in  an  offensive  manner. 
Perhaps  what  I  say,  and  the  spirit  in  which  I  say  it,  may  do  some 
good.  In  this  hope  I  have  vvfitten.  If  I  can  extinguish  one  spark 
of  animosity  between  the  tv^o  «eciions— (unhappy  word  !) — of  my 
much  loved  country,  I  shall  have  accomplished  a  great  deal. 

A  word  farther,  as  to  the  name  of  my  poem. — I  am  aware  that  a 
prose  work,  bearing  the  first  part  of  my  title,  has  been  published : 
but  I  have  added  the  words,  "  A  Poem,"  in  order  to  distinguish 
between  the  titles.  I  had  partly  written  this  poem,  and  had  adop- 
ted the  name,  before  the  prose  work  was  published.  And  as  it  is 
the  only  ene  which  will  answer  my  entire  purpose,  I  retain  it. 

Tbe  Author. 

July  nth,  1859. 


THE    OLD    PLANTATIOiY 

A   POEM. 


Dear  &acr«d  spot,  secluded  vale  of  shade, 
How  oft  hath  fancy,  liugering  here,  delayed. 
To  trace  the  scenes  of  merry  childhood  o'er, 
By  memoiy's  magic  roused  to  life  onee  more. 
Here,  weary  wanderer,  worn  and  wasted   turned, 
I  greet  the  hour  for  which  my  heart  hath  yearned, 
Where'er  my  steps  by  fortune  have  been  cast, 
Blest  scenes,  my  first  affection  and  my  last. 

The  lone  wildbird,  impelled  by  autumn's  wind, 
His  first-loved  forest  leaving,  speeds  to  find 
More  genial  groves  to  spend  a  weary  hour. 
But,  pining,  longs  (o  see  his  native  bower, 
And  flies  when  winter's  stormy  wind  is  past, 
With  hope  to  find  his  early  home  at  last. 
But  in  mid  air,  with  panting,  weary  breast, 
Seeking  in  vain  the  dear  paternal  nest. 
With  drooping  plumes  he  sees  his  downy  home 
Felled  to  the  earth,  and  turrs  once  more  to  roam  ; 
Yet  sadly  lingers  near  the  fallen  spray. 
Whence  rosy  morn  first  caught  his  earliest  lay, 
Delaying  yet,  with  fond  regret,  to  fly. 
And  still  delaying  near  his  native  sky. 
So  turning  from  my  wanderings,  lovely  spot, 
I  seek  for  childhood's  home,  but  find  it  not. 
Save  here  and  there  some  remnant  trace  forlorn, 
As  parting  sun-set  leaves  the  tinge  of  morn. 
Yet  all  these  traces,  still  to  memory  dear, 
Posaess  their  charms  the  lonely  breast  to  cheer. 
As  sad  memorials  of  my  childhood's  bloom. 
Like  pulseless  marble  o'er  the  cherished  tomb. 
And  so  amid  these  ruins  will  I  roam, 
To  read  the  scanty  epitaphs  of  home, 
And  ere  I  turn  this  lovely  vale  to  leave. 
Grant  me,  oh !    Heaven,   one  moment's  kind  reprieve 
From  all  my  wo,  awhile  to  loiter  here. 
The  'rapturing  scenes  of  early  transports  near  ; 
To  wander  mid  the  haunts  of  bounding  youth, 


b  TIIK    OlA)    IM.AN  1  A  flo.\. 

The  bowers  of  ease,  tlip  seats  of  love  and  truth  ; 

fiere  to  delay,  and  fondly  still  delay — 

One  Inst,  long,  lingering  look,  and  tlien  away. 

To  boyhood's  scones,  fond  mcni'ry,  turn  thy  gaxet 
And  paint  the  ])leasares  of  my  childish  days; 
liy  yonder  fountnin,  fold  thy  wrary  wing, 
And  rest  awliile  beside  tlic   good  old  spring, 
Whofic  low  rail-pen,  half'-toltering,  stood  nroundi 
Ab  limpid  waters  all  my  labor  crowned. 
Those  gnrgling  waters  pure  as  cr^'Stal  were, 
W^iosc  lising  vapors  Cooled  the  summcv's  air. 
Where  green  as  emerald  was  the  mossy  g<im, 
And  laden  bees  produced  tlieii  drowsy  hum, 
ftoneath  the  oaks  that  spread  their  j^iaut.  arms, 
To  bid  me  welcome  to  their  rustic  charms. 
The  hang-bird  reared  her  fledglirgs  overhead, 
The  log-cock  hammered — n'ith  iiis  crested  red  ; 
TliB  humming-bird  pursued  his  airy  track, 
The  red-wing  bunting  spread  his  glossy  black  ; 
The  killdee  whistled  by  the  limpid  rill, 
The  piper  bowed  upon  its  grassy  frill ; 
The  gold-foot  dauber  gathered  here  his  nuid, 
The  firebird  flitted  by,  as  red  as  blood. 
My  brothers  sat  beside  me  on  the  pen, 
And  sisters  fond  were  m}'  com]ianions  then  ; 
But  all  are  gone — oh  !  Heaven,  how  lonely  now, 
Do  all  my  thoughts,  and  all  my  feelings  bow  ! 

What  crowds  of  memories  throng  the  pregnant  mind, 
Though  few  remaining  objects  here  I  find 
Of  all  that  crowned  my  youthful  days  with  joy, 
And  wreathed  the  hours  that  liugeied  round  the  boy  ! 
From  yon  old  spring  how  often  have  1  quaffed 
The  cooling  beverage,  nature's  nectarcd  draught. 
Which  gods  themselves  might  bend  the  kuee  to  sip, 
As  glorious  water  kissed  the  fevered  lip. 
But  now  tlio  fount  in  cane  and  rushes  hid, 
A  stagnant  tide  spreads  tangled  grass  amid, 
Its  heart  too  weak  to  drive  a  silvery  vein 
With  murmuring  pulses  toward  the  watery  main. 

In  yonder  grove,  where  many  an  aching  void 
Betrays  the  growth  by  heartless  hands  destruyed, 
The  gnarled  tiunksJby  cruel  axemen  scarred. 
The  knotted  shafts  by  mammom's  minions  marred, 
With  rapturous  joy  mine  eyes  once  more  behold 
Surviving  oaks,  whose  shades  were  here  of  old  : 
And  still  they  stand,  those  giants  of  tho  wood. 
Where  centuries  since  in  vigorous  growth  th«y  stood. 
Wrenched  by  the  storms  of  heaven  their  waving  arms. 
Their  wasted  boughs  despoiled  of  half  their  charms. 
Defiant  still  they  rear  their  branches  high. 
And  gaze  unconquered  toward  the  conquenng  sky, 


THE   OLD    Pr,A.\TATI()N. 

Proud  iHonai'cbs  yet  that  cau  alike  withstand 
The  blasting  storm,  and  man's  destroying  hand. 

Back  to  yon  spring,  once  more,  my  vision  tunis, 
To  taste  its'  wave,  ob  !  how  my  bosom  yearns  ! 
Bnt  pure  no  more  these  waters  may  1  find, 
To  rotting  rush,  and  oozy  moss  consigned. 
There  flows  the  brook  which  bathed  my  feverish  feet. 
Its  banks  perfumed  with  many  a  vernal  sweet, 
The  fragrant  breath  of  wild-flowers  hovering  round, 
While  nature's  Brussels  spread  the  mossy  ground. 
The  aromatic  spicewood's  tiny  bloom 
Vied  with  th'  ambrosial  sweetshrub's  rare  periume, 
While  the  neat  hawthorn  all  its  fragrance  threw, 
And  gaudy  dogwoods  decked  the  vernal  view. 
Oh  !  happy  scene  of  happier  boyliood's  days, 
How  longs  my  heart  for  all  thj  flowery  ways  ; 
From  bloom  to  bloom  to  chase  the  gaudy  fly, 
And  breathe  the  incense  of  the  laden  sky. 
The  bee  and  butterfly  are  flitting  still. 
The  hawthorn  blooms  beside  the  lessening  rill, 
But  old,  familiar  objects  are  decayed. 
Where  oft  my  feet  with  lingering  joy  delayed. 
And  I,  alas  !  am  standing  all  alone. 
My  loved  companions,  and  my  boyhood  flown. 
The  garden  walks  by  weeds  are  all  effaced. 
The  negio's  cottage  by  decay  displaced  ; 
The  dairy  stands  no  more  where  once  it  stood. 
The  axeman's  hand  has  mangled  half  the  wood  ; 
The  moss-choked  fountain  starves  the  hungry  brook, 
And  yon  old  hill,  which  summer's  thunder  shook. 
Alone  the  power  of  tempests  can  defy. 
And  mock  the  terrors  of  the  wasting  sky. 

Well  I  remember  many  a  mirthful  scene 
Of  playiul  children  sporting  o'er  the  green, 
Beneath  the  oak  that  spread  a  cooling  shade. 
In  summer's  flush  of  foliage  bright  arrayed. 
.The  generous  dog  our  peaceful  sports  partook, 
Joy  in  each  motion,  lovo  in  every  look, 
A  faithful  friend  misfortune  could  not  try, 
A  loyal  servant  money  could  not  buy. 
How  oft,  when  boyish  fancj  made  me  roam , 
The  faithful  fellow  bayed  me  welcome  home, 
Frisked  round  my  steps,  and  gamboled  as  T  came, 
And  eager  rushed,  the  first  embrace  to  claim. 
For  many  years,  old  friend,  thy  dust  has  slept. 
By  stranger  hearts,  and  stranger  eyes  unwept. 
But  iu  my  mind,  thine  image  aye  hath  been, 
And  in  my  heart  thy  memory  still  is  green. 
Art  thou  all  dead,  or  in  a  bettor  land, 
Dost  thou  beside  my  gentle  father  stand. 
Waiting  to  greet  the  weary  wanderer  home, 
When  here  my  wayworn  feet  shall  cease  to  roam  I 


THK    OLU    rLANTATION 


To  bay  ine  welcome,  as  tliou  didst  of  'yore, 
When  all  ray  wo,  with  all  my  wauderiug's  o'er  l 

Well  1  rometnber  all  llic  grunting  swine. 
The  playful  calves  amid  the  lowing  kiue  ; 
The  lazy  pig  that  wallowed  in  the  mud, 
The  sober  cow  that  chewed  her  savory  cud, 
Or  waded  through  the  cooling  wave  she  drank. 
To  crop  the  liower  upon  the  mossy  bank  ; 
Thp  dairy  that  received  the  liquid  store, 
The  snowy  vessels  full,  and  flowing  o'er  ; 
Aunt  Tabbr  striving,  stately  as  a  queen, 
To  keep  her  milk-pans  burnished  bright  and  clean, 
Her  sable  bosom  heaving  high  with  pride, 
Where  stood  the  churn  and  dasber  by  her  side. 
Wo  to  the  little  darkey  who  should  dare 
To  visit,  or  invade  her  kingdom  there  : 
A  shout  and  slap  announced  her  queenly  frown. 
And  knocked  the  luckless  black  lutruder  down. 
Yet  she  was  kind,  and  when  the  milk  was  churned, 
Out  in  a  troop  the  little  hegroes  turned, 
Armed  with  a  tin-cup  each,  to  get  his  share 
Of  Granny's  scolding,  and  the  homely  fare. 
On  foaming  butter-milk,  and  smoking  bread. 
Baked  in  the  ashes,  each  was  fully  fed, 
Beneath  the  tree,  all  seated  on  the  ground, 
With  grass,  and  grateful  shadow  spread  around. 
Nor  these  alone  the  rustic  fare  partook, 
The  master's  children  daintier  meals  forsook, 
And  Granny-laughed  to  see  the  youngsters  hie, 
To  feast  where  miith  and  frolic  waited  by ; 
To  eat  the  ashcake  which  she  kindly  gave 
The  little  master  with  the  little  slave, 
All  gaily  happy  in  their  boisterous  glee, 
As  equals  'neath  the  old  familiar  tree. 

Blest  in  Lis  lowly,  and  his  happy  lot, 
The  cegio  hero  possessed  a  cheerful  cot, 
Which  gave  him  shelter  for  his  humble  head, 
While  daily  toil  supplied  him  bounteous  bread  : 
Here  wap  the  garden  with  its  scented  thyme,  . 
And  all  th'e  flowers  that  bless  the  southern  clime  ; 
The  luscious  fruit  upon  the  tangled  vine, 
Whose  mellowing  juice  produced  the  rustic  wine  ; 
Here  all  the  scenes  that  blessed  my  boyish  heart, 
And  freighted  bliss  to  pleasure's  crowded  mart ; 
But  things  are  changed,  and  mouldering,  sure  decay 
Is  sweeping  all  these  lovely  scenes  away. 

Where  all  this  valo  was  once  instinct  with  life 
No  more  we  hear  the  hum  of  busy  strife, 
But  mouldering  walls  are  trembling  in  decay, 
And  whip-poor-wills  discourse  their  lonely  lay. 
Adown  yon  roof  the  creeping  ivy  falls, 


THR    OLD    PLANTATION.  9 

And  bats  depend  upon  the  tottering  walls, 
While  hooting  owls  their  midnight  orgies  hold, 
Then,  in  the  day  their  sombre  pinions  fold 
On  mossy  timbers  rotting  overhead, 
Their  dozy  dreams  on  some  dull  fancy  fed. 
By  day  the  partridge  whistles  in  the  wood, 
By  night  the  rabbit  crops  his  tender  food, 
Or  rambleg  o'er  this  lonely  rale  uncurbed, 
While  the  coj'  weasel  wanders  undisturbed. 
By  moonlight,  here  the  skulking  possum  comes, 
Here  the  sly  fox,  a  shadowy  spectre,  roame. 
And,  to  the  wind,  at  dismal  dead  of  night, 
Bays  forth  his  desolation,  mid  the  blight 
That,  like  some  bird  of  evil  omen,  spreads 
His  giant  wings,  and,  in  their  shadow,  sheds 
The  baleful  influence  of  a  dark  decay. 
Where  rain's  sceptre  holds  despotic  sway. 
And,  ©ft  commingled,  all  these  doleful  sounds. 
The  traveller,  passiug  by  these  shadowy  grounds, 
With  trembling  hears,  at  twilight,  or  at  dawn, 
And,  panic-stricken,  flies  the  haunted  lawn. 

This  ruin  fills  my  shrinking  heart  with  dread, 
And  turns  my  thoughts  to  wander  with  the  dead ; 
From  pleasant  fields,  which  bliss  was  roaming  o'er, 
Fate  drives  the  trembler  through  her  jarring  door  ; 
Then  turns  to  rouse  within  my  breast  the  wo, 
Which  slumbered,  lulled  by  memory's  genial  glow. 
And  points  with  scorn  to  friends  that  moulder  here. 
With  boding  lines  of  spectres  hovering  near, 
The  phantom  host  which  dark  despair  arrays, 
When  hope  withdraws,  and  palls  her  genial  blaze. 

My  flowing  joys,  alas  !  too  soon  congealed, 
Look  back  and  fiiid  their  miser  fountain  sealed, 
So  soon  that  fountain  ceases  its  supply. 
And  leaves  my  freezing  pleasures  all  to  lie 
In  icy  chains,  and  shrouding  fetters  bound. 
Like  corpses  scattered  o'er  the  spectral  ground. 

Oft  when  the  woodman  with  unfeeling  blow. 
Leaves  on  the  ground,  with  cheerless  ice,  and  snow. 
Some  luckless  tree,  to  die  mid  wind,  and  rain. 
As  winter  goes,  it  seeks  to  bloom  again  ; 
The  scanty  sap  flows  through  its  fibry  veins. 
And  swells  its  buds,  amid  congenial  rains  ; 
The  flowers  half  burst,  and  then  the  gladdening  tree. 
Amid  its  gay  companions,  smiles  to  see 
The  bloomy  flush  of  fast  returning  spring, 
With  life,  and  hope  upon  her  balmy  wing. 
With  loving  faith,  its  beaming  face  it  tarns. 
To  catch  the  streams  of  life  for  which  it  yearns, 
But,  finding  that  in  vaiu  it  seeks  supplies. 
It  droops  its  disappointed  head,  and  dies. 


10  THB  OLD    PLANTATION. 

So  here,  at  first,  on  faocy'A  wing  returued 

The  spring  of  youth,  my  yearuing  bosom  burned 

With  all  of  joyfnl  hope's  electric  glow, 

And  felt  the  streams  of  Llifs  began  to  flow, 

Fill  up  my  breast,  meander  through  my  reins, 

Drire  out  my  sorrows,  dissipate  my  pains, 

And  fiom  hope's  buds,  which  blept  in  wintry  gloom, 

The  flowers  of  bliss  once  more  began  to  bloom. 

But,  ah  f  my  joys  soon  lost  the  scanty  flow 

Of  life  that  caused  these  genial  flowers  to  blow, 

Aud,  roused  to  ponder  time's  relentless  change, 

Now  hopeless  o'er  the  paths  of  youth  1  range. 

My  withered  hopes,  like  flowers  upon  the  ground, 

Lie  mouldering  with  these  mouldering  ruins  round  : 

Yet  here,  one  honr,  dear  home  of  brighter  days, 

I'H  linger,  led  through  memory's  magic  ma^se. 

Recount  the  joys,  renew  the  scenes  of  youth, 

And  blink  the  stern  reality  of  truth. 

Haply  the  task  may  ronse  some  shimbering  joy 

That  used  to  haunt  the  visions  of  the  boy. 

And  hope  once  more,  perchance,  the  sceptre  grasp; 

And  me,  the  wanderer,  to  her  bosom  clasp. 

Too  happy  if  but  for  one  moment  free — 

Small  boon,  'tis  true,  but  all  enough  for  me — 

And  then  I'll  turn,  a  pilgrim  onco  again, 

And  leave  the  shades  of  this  long-cherished  plain, 

An  exiled  stranger  from  his  native  sky, 

Upon  some  foreign  strand  to  droop  and  die. 

In  happier  days,  here  from  the  cottage  fire. 
The  wreathing  smoke  sent  up  its  airy  spire. 
With  upward  instincts,  clambering  toward  the  sky. 
In  rich  luxuriance  tiaiued  to  mount  on  high. 
The  fragrant  woodbine  round  the  chimney  twined, 
And  mossy  stones  in  graceful  folds  enshrined. 
Nor  even  now  the  vine  is  wholly  dead. 
Creeping  slow-paced  along  the  mossy  shed. 
Torn  from  the  chimney  by  some  blasting  storm, 
Pespoiled  by  winds  of  half  its  ancient  form. 
The  band  that  trained  It,  moulders  'neath  the  sod, 
The  heart  that  loved  it  gladdens  by  itb  God  ; 
But  grateful  scions  from  the  parent  vine. 
The  humble  cotter's  peaceful  grave  enshrine, 
Transplanted  by  some  loved  and  tender  hand, 
Whert  tomb-stones  chiseled  but  by  nature  stand  ; 
Those  granite  fragments,  mossy,  gray,  and  rude. 
That  mark  the  spot  where  angel  pinions  brood. 
Guarding  the  rest  of  humble  sleepers  where 
Teo  close  obtrudes  the  sacrilegious  share. 
£yen  now  I  hear  the  rustle  of  their  plumes, 
Fanning  the  odor  from  those  rustic  blooms. 
Bending  the  shrubbery  aud  the  garden  flowers, 
That  yet  are  spared  to  decorate  yon  bowers  ; 


•THE   OLD    PLANTATION.  II 

Tliat  fringe  the  chaniel  where  the  waving  com 
Sbeds  pearly  tears,  embalmed  by  dewy  morn. 
To  think  that  man  will  thus  the  place  invade. 
Where  brother  matx's  departed  lite  is  laid. 

Oh  !  thing  of  life,  oh  !  animated,  vine, 
Embowering  still  this  consecrated  shrine, 
Content  to  leave  the  spires  that  pierce  the  sky. 
And  humbly  o'er  the  colter's  grave  to  lie. 
Dear  emblem  thou  of  friendship's  noblest  state. 
Forsaking  place  with  lowly  loved  to  wait, 
Stooping  from  heigbt^o  guard  the  feeble  breast. 
Quitting  thy  pride  to  make  the  humblest  blest, 
Clasping  thy  tendrils  o'er  the  lowliest  grave, 
Mindful  alike  of  master  and  of  slave. 
How  pants  my  heart  to  rest  its  sorrow  here. 
With  closing  autumn,  and  the  opening  year. 
With  thee,  fast  friend,  to  linger  near  me  still, 
When  in  the  tomb  my  heart  hath  ceased  to  thrill. 
Rather  by  far  my  dust  should  slumber  here, 
Thau  where  the  urns  of  sculptured  art  appear, 
Where  marble  piles  their  grandeur  rear  on  high. 
And  leave  the  heart  in  desolate  pomp  to  lie  ; 
Than  in  the  abbey,  where,  in  regal  slate, 
The  monarch  lies  in  futile  splendor  great, 
Leaving  a  name  for  history's  page  in  rain 
To  varnish  o"er,  and  gloss  his  vicious  reign. 
But  useless  thought !   the  btranger  owns  the  soil. 
And  here  my  heart  may  never  rest  its  toil. 
Intruder  now,  while  life  prolongs  its  sway, 
Intruder  more,  when  life  has  ebbed  away, 
I  may  not  rest  where  all  these  loved  ones  rest. 
Thou,  friendly  vine,  may'st  never  clasp  my  breast. 

Oh  !  could  I  leave  one  living  friend  to  weepj 
When  in  the  ground  these  weary  memberi  sleep, 
'Twere  dearer  far  than  though  my  name  were  high. 
On  fame's  proud  shaft  that  pierced  the  bending  slcy. 
But  none  1  have  !     No  living  being  knows, 
Much  less  would  c^re,  for  all  the  wanderer's  woes  : 
Yet  when  I  die,  to  friendly  dust  consigned 
This  dust  shall  be,  and  the  immortal  mind 
Will  spurn  the  worm,  escape  the  dungeon  sod. 
And  trust  its  fate  to  mercy  and  to  God. 

Here,  'neath  those  oaks,  primeval  sentries  where 
The  Indian  slept,  the  wolf  embowered  his  lair, 
O'ershadowing  all,  with  arms  of  giant  frame, 
The  fearless  settler,  tyrant-hunted  came, 
His  lot  amid  entangled  wilds  to  cast, 
Chilled  by  the  rains,  and  tortured  by  the  blast. 
Keen  blew  the  winds  when  winter  brought  hfs  snow, 
And  summer's  flowers  with  autumn  ceased  to  blow  ; 


12  THE  OLD   PLANTATION, 

But  wind  and  tide  were  evils  light  «8  air, 
Compared  witli  those  which  hefarte  in  fetters  bear. 

The  man  by  Heaven  for  freedom  when  designed, 
Enslaved  no  joy  in  thraldoin'a  path  may  find, 
Save  when  high  hope  commands  him  burst  his  chaiD« 
And  give  his  heart  to  freedom's  joy  again  : 
Then  high  resolve  may  make  his  bosom  blest, 
Though  still  with  chains  the  prisoner  be  cpprest. 
Y«t  stolid  hearts,  to  eveiy  feeling  dull, 
Supplying  veins  of  sluggish  languor  full, 
That  need  must  hare  a  guardian's  fostering  hand, 
To  give  them  homes,  and  answer  want's  demand — 
Designed  by  Heaven  to  wear  a  master's  chain. 
May  wear  it  softlv,  and  be  rid  of  pain  : 
Nay,  'tis  their  bliss  to  have  some  power  to  lead, 
To  guard  them,  give  them  raiment,  and  to  feed. 

Not  so  with  him  who  sought  the  western  wild, 
Born  to  be  free,  by  bondage  made  her  child  : 
His  birth-right  freedom,  his  the  freeman's  glow, 
A  tyrant  linked  his  heart  to  slavery's  wo. 
But  scorning  chains,  he  sought  iLe  western  world, 
Tossed  by  the  tide,  and  by  the  tempest  hurled  ; 
Small  evils  these,  if  freedom's  halo  shed 
Its  genial  beams  around  his  manly  head  : 
Let  him  be  free,  and  thunders  loud  might  roll, 
And  drive  his  shattered  bark  from  pole  to  pole. 
Such  thoughts  as  these  the  exile's  breast  inspired, 
While  freedom  all  his  glowing  passion-  fired  : 
For  freedom's  sake  he  crossed  the  envious  brine. 
And  to  bis  goddess  reared  an  humble  shrine  ; 
His  cot  beside  the  sacred  altar  reared, 
And  round  his  door  the  useless  timber  cleared  ; 
But  felling  trees,  reserved  the  needed  shade, 
The  artist's  with  the  laborer's  skill  displayed. 

Back  go  my  thoughts  to  memories  of  the  child, 
How  'mid  his  toil  my  weary  father  smiled  ; 
How  sighed  my  mother  when  his  back  was  turned. 
As  for  her  native  land  her  bosom  yearned  ; 
Yet  would  she  meet  her  husband  with  a  smile. 
And  veil  her  griefs  with  well  dissembling  wile. 
Well  I  remember,  round  our  forest  home, 
The  worm-fence  yard  I  careless  used  to  roam  ; 
The  roof  of  boards,  the  wooden-hinged  door. 
The  smoky  rafters,  and  the  rugged  floor  ; 
The  tall  old  clock  which  in  the  corner  stood, 
The  table  made  of  rudely-shapen  wood  ; 
The  trusty  rifle  hanging  on  the  rack. 
The  hearth  of  stone,  the  broad,  old  sooty  back. 
Well  I  remember  how  the  Indian's  yell, 
With  terrof  fraught,  came  sweeping  down  the  dell ; 
The  mftoly  grasp  which  clutched  the  gun  and  knifei 


THE   OLD  PLANTATION.  13 

Prepared  to  guard  the  helpless  babe  and  wife. 

The  wolf's  wild  cry  do  I  remember  well, 

The  paiitber's  scream,  intoned  with  notes  of  bell ; 

The  fox's  bark,  the  cougar's  maddening  bowlj 

The  fiendish  laugh  of  the  demoniac  owl  5 

The  serpent's  rattle,  and  tbe  fawn's  light  bound, 

The  watchful  cur-dog,  and  the  bunting  bound. 

Well  I  remember  many  a  brindled  hide, 

And  antlered  trophy  on  the  cottage  side ; 

Tbe  bear's  meat  brought  to  grace  the  rustic  board, 

Tbe  larder  with  tbe  fattest  venison  stored* 

To  share  otir  toils  did  other  settlers  come, 
Exchanging  fetters  for  a  forest  home  | 
Hard  by  our  cot,  the  giant  trees  they  cleared^ 
And  humble  huts  with  busy  labor  reared. 
Each  aided  each,  commingling  needed  toilj 
To  fell  tbe  timber,  break  tbe  virgin  soil, 
A  fruitful  store  which  paid  their  labors  welh 
Clad  all  .the  bill,  and  lined  the  blooming  dell, 
Since  Heaven  well  pleased,  with  gifts  propitious  smiled, 
And  crowned  an  Eden,  where  there  frowned  a  wild. 
Tbe  wild  subdued,   the  Indian  forced  away. 
The  savage  beast  no  more  pursued  his  prey, 
And  where  tbe  cougar's  maddening  howl  was  heard, 
There  came  the  notes  of  the  wild  warbling  bird, 
A  living  joy  for  man's  companion  fit, 
Around  his  door  in  sunny  hours  to  flit, 
Or  cheer  his  toil  beneath  the  frowning  cloud, 
Herald  of  hope,  when  winter  spreads  his  shroud. 

Where  tangled  vines  once  walled  the  settlers  round, 
Tbe  snowy  cotton  all  the  valley  crowned, 
And  golden  wheat,  and  the  luxuriant  corn. 
And  queenly  flowers  that  triumphed  o'er  the  thorn. 
Where  once  the  Indian  pierced  his  bleeding  prey, 
With  plumed  shaft,  the  plough  assumed  the  Sivay, 
And  flowing  wealth  in  fattening  cofters  poured. 
Built  costlier  homes,  and  barns  with  plenty  stored. 
The  church  was  built,  the  sacred  altar  reared, 
The  gospel  preached,  Jehovah  loved  and  feared, 
While  learning  came,  and  with  its  potent  rod, 
Enlarged  the  mind,  yet  kept  the  heart  to  God. 

Soon  as  tbe  morning  lent  its  rosy  ray, 
To  yonder  grove, 'the  children  held  their  way, 
Where,  hid  in  sha'de,  the  consecrated  ball, 
To  learning  sacred,  reared  its  humble  wall. 
In  neat  attire,  from  many  a  happy  home, 
Along  yon  lane  the  smiling  youngsters  come, 
Where  browzing  cows  obstruct  the  narrow  path, 
Fit  objects  for  the  dire,  destructive  wrath. 
That  rages  in  each  hero's  mighty  breast, 
With  gallant  thought,  and  high  resolva  oppreswd. 


14  THK    01. r)   PLANTATION. 

Tboir  kindling  wrath  desires  bomo  good^eicuse, 

Ere  they  shall  turn  tlieir  heaving  nugerjloose, 

And  easy  'tis  a  good  excuse  to  iind, 

For  doing  that  to  which  tiie  heart's  inclined  : 

Lo  !    'tis  enougli  !     the  cows  that  dared  to  cross 

Tiie  jialh  they  tread,  turn,  in  the  air  to  toss 

Their  harmless  heads,  as  on  the  youngsters  go, 

In  eager  search  for  cause  to  strike  a  hlow. 

The  girls  shrink  hack,  with  trembling  and  dismay, 

Ajjd  beg  the  boys  to  drive  the  cows  awaj, 

When  on  they  rush,  responsive  to  the  call, 

With  eager  feet,  upon  the  foe  to  fall. 

Down  on  the  cows  with  cruel  charge  they  bend, 

And  dust  and  carnage  on  their  steps  attend. 

While  lifted  clubs,  and  clouds  ol  volleyed  stones 

Storm  round  the  citadels  of  tiesh  and  bones. 

Soon  routed  in  the  most  uner^ual  fight, 

With  safe,  albeit  with  ignoble  flight. 

The  cows  avoid  ^he  missiles  flying  round. 

And  spurn  behind  them  the  receding  ground.    - 

The  foemeu  vanquished,  with  endearing  wiles 

Ihe  girls  the  gallant  heroes  load  with  smiles. 

Happy  the  heart  that  woman's  smiles  shall  cheer, 

In  age  mature,  or  in  the  openi^ig  year, 

Man's  best  reward,  in  boyhood's  early  spring,    . 

Or  when  his  years  make  haste  on  winter's  wing. 

Upon  the  green',  which  spreads  around  the  door, 
The  gathering  crowds  of  boys  begin  to  pour, 
Upon  their  arms  the  burnished  bucket  hung. 
Around  their  necks  the  tattered  satchel  swung, 
While  merry  laughter  rends  the  morning  sk} , 
And  drives  the  circling  jnirple  bour.ding  high. 
The  teacher  comes — with  melny,  tinkling  call 
The  silvery  bell-notes  on  their  clamor  fall,   . 
Call  them  to  books,  and  bid  them  cease  their  sport, 
To  wait  attendance  on  their  master's  court. 

High  on  his  throne,  with  proud,  disdainful  aye, 
The  monarch  sees  his  subjects  passing  by. 
With  rude  turmoil  crowd  in  the  narrow  door, 
And  hurry  striding  o'er  the  trembling  floor 
To  where  the  greasy  water-bucket  stands, 
And  grasu  the  gourd  with  soiled  and  eager  hands. 
Now  on  the  floor  the  liquid  store  they  waste, 
Large  draughts  now  SAvallow  with  indecent  haste  ; 
Not  that  they're  thiisty,  but  because  tliey  think, 
As  oner  has  drunk,  they  everyone  must  drink. 
The  master  chides  the  loiterers  to  their  seats. 
And  oft  hit  fiery,  threatening  words  repeats. 
He'd  flog  them  all,  but  that  with  eager  zest, 
Some  farotite  child  is  sinning  with  the  rest, 
And  for  whose  sake  is  spared  the  pushing  crowd. 
With  leas  of  fortune  and  of  rank  endowed. 


THE   Ol.I)    PLANTATION.  16 

With  growling  grand,  the  tyrant  master  reigned. 
The  sceptre  swayed,  and  matchless  grandeur  feigned, 
Some  vagrant  from  New  England  with  his  rod, 
Forcing  each  child  a  weary  way  to  plod, 
Save  when  some  favorite  found  a  golden  path, 
And  thus  escaped  the  master's  direful  wrath. 
On  benches  low,  the  pupils  ranged  around. 
The  scowling  teacher  many  a  terror  frowned. 
Yet  on  his  wealthy  patron's  darling  smiled, 
But  flogged  the  shoulders  of  the  humbler  child, 
Or  pulled  his  ears,  or  boxed  his  glowing  jaws, 
The  little  trembler  dreaming  not  the  cause, 
Knowing  not  yet  how  sinful  to  be  poor, 
And  not  possessed  of  mammon's  magic  store. 
With  angry  brow,  and  pompous,  high  demean,  ' 

The  mastei:  drove  all  pleasure  from  the  scene, 
Befogged  the  pupils  with  the  Rule  of  Three, 
And  mystified  them  all  from  A  to  Z, 
The  birch  applied  with  many  a  zealous  hit. 
He  sought  to  burnish  every  dullard's  wit, 
Thinking  to  learning  that  the  nearest  track 
Was  that  which  lay  across  an  urchin's  back. 
But  truth  to  say,  this  generous  trait  he  had, 
To  fear  the  youth,  and  domineer  the  lad  ; 
And  when  the  large  boys  angry  grown  amid, 
He  flogged  the  small  for  what  the  larger  did. 

But  sweet  revenge  the  watchful  boyg  enjoyed, 
And  many  a  joke  the  tyrant's  peace  destroyed, 
And  oft  as  some  anuoymg  trick  was  played, 
What  was  design  to  accident  they  laid. 
Now  would  they  muncb,  fiom  pockets  slyly  drawn. 
Their  thefts  from  trees  upon  the  neighboring  lawn, 
Hold  up  their  books  to  hide  the  stolen  fruit. 
And  let  their  neighbors  bite  to  keep  them  mute. 
With  pins  they  filled  the  master's  cushioned  chair, 
And  rubbed  molasses  where  'twould  smear  his  hair,; 
With  paper  stutled,  to  silence  thus,  his  bell, 
And  bribed  the  little  fellows  not  to  tell. 
Some  fastened  placards  on  his  coat  behind. 
With  stones  and  rubbish  all  his  pockets  lined  , 
Some  bolder  boy  would  draw  his  homely  face, 
And  post  the  picture  in  some  public  place, 
A  horrid  thing,  a  wonder  in  its  way. 
With  ears  prolonged,  and  open  mouth  to  bray. 

And  now  the  master  to  his  neighboring  home, 
For  dinner  gone,  the  laughing  roisterers  roam 
O'er  field  and  wood,  with  free  and  happy  air, 
Searching  each  scene  for  pleasure's  daintiest  fare. 
Some  press  the  maids,  who  rudely  snatch  away. 
Yet  manage  for  one  moment  to  delay, 
Coyly  enraged  that  one  sheuld  dare  to  taste 


16  THR  Ol.n    rLA.\TAUO^. 

Of  willing  lips,  ov  zone  the  auxiouB  wais*. 
Now  'noaOi  tb«  shade  they  spiearl  the  arnpl«  sloro, 
Their  buckets  cleared  of  good  things  rujining  o'er  ; 
The  nice  broiled  harn,  the  biscuit  crisp  and  brown, 
The  hard-boiled  eggs,  all  swiftly  swallow  ed  down  ; 
Fried  chicken,  too,  the  savory  breast  and  wing, 
And  butter-milk  cooled  in  the  neighboring  spring, 
Whose  waters  gurgle  to  supply  th»  8cho'>l, 
And  keep  tbe  bottled  saowy  fluid  cool. 

Their  meals  despatched,  to  various  sports  they  rise. 
And  merry  voices  rend  the  ringing  skies  ; 
Their  trundled  hoops  yon  youthful  party  trace, 
In  prison  baae  those  smaller  fellows  rnce  ; 
Beneath  yon  tree,  some  sprawl  upon  the  ground, 
While  marbles  shoot,  and  tops  are  spinning  round. 
Yon  party  rear  their  kilos  upon  the  wifid. 
With  boisterous  pleasure  bubbling  from  the  mind  ; 
Here  round  the  house,  (heso  wantons  cbase  the  pig. 
In  yondec  field,  those  tilcb  the  blushing  fig; 
Some  toss  the  ball,  then  rally  for  the  chase. 
With  eager  feet,  and  smiling,  glowing  face  ; 
Those  little  boys,  tbe  saplings  bending  down, 
Call  them  their  horses  that  they  ri^f^  te  town. 
Which  rear,  and  curvet,  as  their  riaers  spring, 
And  up  and  d(iwn  with  fiery  motion  swing. 
The  gills,  confined  to  fewer  sports  than  these, 
PL-xy  with  their  doUa  beneath  the  shady  trees. 
While  one,  perforce,  with  cunning  steals  away, 
Where  yonder  youthful  lover  feigns  to  play, 
Till  hid  the  blooming  hawthorn  bush  beiiind, 
A  moment's  fond  dehiy  the  couple  find, 
Exchange  a  kiss,  and  thiiik  themselves  unseen, 
But  hear  the  jibe,  and  blush  with  ba?hful  mien, 
For  yonder  group  upoc  the  covert  fteal, 
And  joer  the  pleasure  they  would  like  to  feel. 

A  beardless  youth,  with  boyish  griefs  forlorn, 
His  heart,  perchance,  by  sad  misfortune  torn. 
Forsook  the  snows  that  bound  liih  frigid  home, 
Amid  the  flowers  of  milder  climes  to  roam. 
The  stranger  youth,  received  with  open  nrnis, 
Here,  in  this  vale,  enjoyed  iti  rustic  charms  ; 
Here  taught  the  youth  committed  to  his  cbargo, 
'Mid  favors  many,  and  a  bounty  large, 
Since  generous  people  heeded  wants  demand, 
And  blessfld  tbo  stratger  with  a  libei-al  hand. 
At  all  thoir  boards  he  shared  the  social  cheer, 
With  all  the  pleasures  friendship  fostered  hero, 
And  boundless  favor  smiled  his  feet  around, 
While  ready  welcome  aye  his  coming  crowned. 
But  time  rolled  on,  the  youth  a  man  becanje, 
And  won  his  way  to  fortune  and  to  fame, 
With  hatred  every  act  of  kindness  paid, 


pH8.5 


